The May's Secret

Last May morning, I stumbled into a bower
I did not know was there, hidden deep
In a sea of may-blossom and may-flower.
And I found there, laid sound asleep-
But back first; to understand my story,
You must first hear the song of the glory

That is my home on the day of Beltaine.
Then the air glints with a pure blue
That was when the stars knew nothing of pain,
That was when the winds whispering blew
On endless oceans of undarkened day.
Such is my home amid the oceans of may,

That blossoms white in the glinting fields,
That blossoms white on swaying thorn,
That blossoms white, and in so doing shields
Some secrets that were not meant to be borne
Afar by rumor and by wagging tongue.
So it is in my home when springtime is young.

So it was when I found the deep bower.
Wading knee-deep through the bloom-snow,
I stumbled, and fell face-first into flower,
Yelping as I felt the thorns' stinging blow.
I recovered, and turned, stopping as I saw
Something that made of me one with incarnated awe.

So white that I thought it a bit of the bloom,
Or the bloom's twin from a far fairer world-
A bit of detached, flame-dusky gloom
That over far better fields than these is hurled-
A white deer fawn in the bower bright lay;
A white deer slept there among the white may.

His flanks shone with a luster like pearls
Drawn new from the sea, just wet, and glinting.
Transfigured, the sunlight's pale curls
Foamed around him, of new beauty hinting,
As though every turn would reveal more white,
As though every step would shed a new light.

Suddenly, he stirred, a soft shivering breath
Soft as baby's cheeks passing his petal-lips.
Incandescence died a thousandfold death
As his eyes opened; and in small sips
Of wonder I glanced at him, and then away.
His eyes shone more brilliant than day.

He stood, legs unfolding like small stalks,
Like nodding flower-stems that the wind
Brushes in its passage, with whom it talks,
Blooms that never against beauty have sinned.
The fawn stood, and with swaying grace
Made his way into the blossoms' mill-race.

One more sight I had of him, glinting there,
Like the sea where all streams come to rest,
Like the looking-glass where the sun does her hair,
Like the heaving of some thought-lover's breast.
Then he passed, and from his flanks a flash
Rose that made all the white I knew ash.

Yet though I will not see such beauty again,
I do not gaze on the may with teary eyes,
Or turn with sick longing from my fellow men.
In the ways of beauty I have become wise.
I know that such beauty might easily come
To the world, and lie beneath any blossom.

Loveliness I might find when not seeking,
Just as I stumbled and fell in that bower,
Into beauty's epiphany suddenly peeking,
Sheltered by a slender shield of may-flower.
I might walk drenched in radiance any day;
So I think whenever I see the bright may.